


Over the River and Through the Wood (to my sweetheart's house we go)

by NellyNee



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: A potsfeilder meets a fleshy, Benevolent spirits!Pottsfielders, F/F, Femslash, Handwavy mild femslash but that's it's intetion, Little thing I thought up, handfastings, she's a cute fleshy but she's still a fleshy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8535361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NellyNee/pseuds/NellyNee
Summary: The year or so that Anna's father is missing is not as lonely as one might think.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IncurableNecromantic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncurableNecromantic/gifts).



> Just a little thing I spit out over the course of three or four hours. Very VERY rough WIP that will probably never be touched again, but there's not enough femslash out to just not post it when you got it. Might and maybe some day expand upon this.
> 
> The character of Clara Deen and her version of Pottsfield is from the capital L Lovely IncurableNecromantic's fics, please do read them.

With the loss of her father, Anna has become more wary. It is less the way of her sire, who's grief and childish belief in wandering tales had drowned him in fits of anxiety and fear, and more in remembrance. “No.” he had said, often and without fit reason. “No.” He still says in the back of her mind, and the impact is that much harder in his absence.

 

But in the end, she is still her mother's daughter. She does not blame the forest for the rot that had taken her mother's blood, nor does the things that wander it strike an unforgettable fear into her heart. She fallows her mother's rhymes and reasons away her father's fears, and finds herself, if not thriving, then surviving.

 

Even with the grief, her last family taken from her in their folly, that does not stop the dangers they'd had before. She is right, that the snow will be deep by the time noon has passed. The town is not so far, that she isn't back before the snow has fallen. (And damn the farmer who blames that frost for his prices. Already, she feels the sting of her Father's loss in the bright dawn. She has traveled to town with him for years, watched as he done one of the few things he could for his family and bartered their gold coin at fair price. She knows what feed costs, and knows now that a girl-child alone will be coaxed to pay more.) But she had hoped to use the clear night to chop the wood. It is of no consequence now, knowing what she does of the forest. Though she holds no fear for the thing she has already escaped once, the dawn comes early in the wake of the slowly disappearing footsteps of her father. The snow falls, her breath shows, and ever practical she looses the smell of her mother to take her cloak from it's chest and she chops wood.

 

Winter is a harsh fellow who batters at the doorways, so she eats lean, giving the scraps to the goats and the feed to the chickens and a small cup of milk to the hearth. Father always bemoaned the waste, but mother was more insistent that their house was old enough, and their family has stories. So rather than give in to his stubbornness, she double checks the locks on their fences and doors and windows as apology.

 

_A treat of milk or sweets in mind_

_for helpers of the friendly kind._

 

Indeed, it takes some weeks, but she coaxes a Brownie into the home, and most mornings she'll wake to a cleared path to the barn, or a small pile of tinder or herbs where she had none, a bowl of dough rising on the counter top. It is far more help than her father's clumsy attempts, but she misses him all the more for them. The house is colder without another body to share it, without a reason to keep the stove lit so that he may read into the night, without happy mistakes and heated argument and with the knowledge that her stubbornness lost him.

 

Yes, she will survive, but she shan’t be happy for it.

 

The winter is terribly lonely, with the roads iced to useless, and the animals her only comfort. More than once she contemplates finding a husband come spring. Neither of her parents would have approved. Even with her first blood, they had claimed her too young, and she had agreed happily of it, a well loved and well off child. But the longer she goes without company, the better it sounds, for a warm bed and idle chatter. Surely she'd have the pick of them, of young men rearing for their own land to work? It wouldn't be so bad. But those thoughts are quickly nipped in the bud. Once she marries, the land that was once her mother's will be under the whims of her husband, and she won't disrespect her mother's family by giving it away frivolously.

 

It is this loneliness that she blames her actions upon in the end, though she does not regret them. Were her father in, he would have stopped it at the door, nervous and critical, and more likely as not to offend and have them all cursed. Were her mother alive, she would have kept it out as well, given what it had wanted, taken what it had to give, and parted safely, and more or less benevolently.

 

But for all that she is her parents lessons, Anna is still a girl in some ways, and her own at that, and so can hardly be blamed she thinks.

 

It starts with a knock on the door.

 

As always, Anna jumps to answer. There is still that hope, that whatever had spirited her father away has him tucked away safe for it's own devices, and that he shall soon escape and come back to her. Until she finds him dead, that hope will live on forever, and so she always jumps. She dose not always answer, for father would have no need to knock, and men in need of a nights stay would no leave her be if they find her alone, but she does peek through the curtains, every time, just in case.

 

Winter has sunken his cold hands within the dirt, and in all honesty, there should be no one outside in this weather. But there in her door stands the shape of a woman, skirts flying wildly in the winds, and there is little Anna can do at the sight of her, poor girl left out in the cold, than see what she wants.

 

She cracks the wooden doorway, ready to slam it shut should it be a specter, only for the wind to rip it from her grasp, the figure in the doorway shoved inside with no more grace than the bluster will allow, before the winds change direction and slam the door shut with a peculiar chuckle.

 

“Yes, yes, you mean old thing. How rude.”

 

Anna hurries to help the other girl up, cups a hand under the other's arm to give leverage, but it's jerked from her grip as quickly as she can take it, and when they stand, the other girl can be but only a fingers breadth taller than Anna herself. It's hard to tell, around the great scarves covering her face and hair, but the voice had been young, more suited to the mother's of Anna's age than of an older matron more suiting of the covering. Even so it's little comfort once Anna takes it all in.

 

Quick as a wick, her mother used to call her with a tap upon the nose, and before the girl has even found her footing, Anna knows it's not a person who's stumbled into her home. The arm in her hand had been hard and smooth, like polished wood, possibly a false one, had it not moved so naturally. The hands beneath the girl's gloves bulged awkwardly and the rest of her clothes hung off her frame with a similar, stuffed quality. And such clothing it was, leathery sheets of leaves that appeared to be corn husks, sewn together and tied with braided rope, like a living, life sized husk doll.

 

It's a very convincing skin at a glance, might even hold up to a second or third if it kept moving, but not a sharp eye.

 

_Keen humor and manners to not cause great offense_

_or your neighbor might demand more than fair in penance._

 

Anna is no fool.

 

“You must be freezing, can I offer you some tea?”

 

Anna leads the fae girl to their worn dinner table, the ever present teapot already steaming on her stove. It keeps very well on the warm metal, and it a good source of heat when she finds a chill.

 

“Oh no, don't put yourself out for me, I'm just grateful to be inside at a time like this.”

 

Faeries do not always say what they mean, and will never take a gift that may come at a price, so she makes the tea anyways, and when she serves it Anna makes sure to place her precious pot of honey as close to the faerie girl as possible.

 

The girl dutifully takes the cup, spooning in a generous dollop of honey with just a touch of cream, but the scarves are not shifted and she does no drink. She does, however, look around Anna's house with unbridled curiosity, occasionally glancing out the windows as if anxious to leave.

 

Silence sits heavy, and Anna sips her tea wonders just what this creature hopes to gain, before the scarf wrapped head turns her way and the being gives a little start, as if Anna had been forgotten until now. Anna can not see her eyes through the scarves, and she's a little grateful. She's not fond of the idea of being enchanted tonight.

 

“Where are my manners? Why I could think of half-a-dozen folk back home who'd take a switch to the back of my knees for this behavior. I'm Clara Deen of Pottsfield. Have you heard of it?”

 

“Anna” She replies, taking the outstretched fingers without fear and dipping as best she can over the table top. The hand feels like crushed straw, and it seems to suffice. After a moment of contemplation, she shakes her head in the negative. The city they came from is their only source of socialization, anything outside those bounds tends to be ignored.

 

“Anna, what a lovely name. So sorry to just bustle into your little home like this without warning. I've been knocking on doors all afternoon, and you're the first to answer! Why those winds out there, bustling about each other, I thought for sure they’d strip me bare.” She titters, a chiming bell of a light that's muffled a bit by the scarves, which Anna can now identify as tightly woven straw, and Anna finds herself laughing in turn.

 

Not very aggressive then. No need for fear, unless given need.

 

“It does seem a bit windy to be out. I had planned to spend the evening indoors mending before you showed up.”

 

“Oh yes, of course, don't hold back on my account, I can't stay long anyways. I didn't tell anyone I was leaving you see, and they'll worry if I'm gone longer than it would take to miss me.”

 

Anna nods, a sentiment she's familiar with.

 

“Are you sure you haven't heard of Pottsfield? I've gotten a bit turned around you see, and I can't seem to find my way back home.”

 

Anna frowns, glancing outside to the screaming winds, the darkening sky. Knowing what is out there, she can't in good consciousness let her just wander about.

 

“It's getting dark and The Beast is about. You shouldn't be alone. Why don't you sleep here for the night. You can stay in my parent's old bed, I can take you to town in the morning. I'm sure one of them has heard of Pottsfield.”

 

“Won't they want to use it?” and it's tempting, to tell her that her family has simply gone to town, a lone person is a easy meal for those who would want it, but...

 

_Though it may seem clever or small or kind_

_Your neighbors will not suffer the smell of a lie_

 

“No, they are gone now.” she murmurs over the lip of her cup of tea.

 

“You are alone here?” and at her nod the faerie, Clara, Anna reminds herself, for it had given it's name willingly, puts her gloved hand up to about where her mouth would be and lets out a tiny “oh” that rings hard in Anna's chest. It's suddenly very hard to breath.

 

“Sleep here?” it continues, and the faerie stills, as if frozen, then gives a queer little shiver that makes the leaves of her clothing rustle. “No no, if I am missed then I'm sure Mr. Hope shall come looking for me. He'll tell the Mayor I was out and about but I'll be home safe and sound before the moon sets.”

 

 _Are you sure_ Anna wants to ask, but the fae should not be questioned in these things. “Mr. Hope?” She asks instead, because that seems like a very powerful name with a story.

 

“Oh yes, these are his woods you know. I left him a little basket of cider when I came in, poor man can never have enough gifts, so he must know I'm here. I'm more in danger from the wind than any little critter roaming about.”

 

Even as she says it, there is a greats screech from outside, like the wind has found the small space between two things to whistle through, and the windows stop their rattling. In fact, it is deathly silent.

 

“Ah! There he is! What a gentleman, coming to escort me home. Thank you very much for the tea, it was lovely.”

 

She is out the door with little more than a goodbye from Anna, and walks confidently through the gate and into the forest, swallowed by the dark without a peep.

 

The cup of tea was not touched, beyond the continuous stirring of restless fingers, but Anna pours it outside rather than drink it, since it was the faerie's to start with and not hers to take back.

 

_----_

 

When she has the time and a bit of extra flour, she makes honeycakes, and sets one on the doorpost of the outermost fence. It had soothed her a bit, to hear of something with such a powerful sounding name to own this part of the wood. Faerie never ask for more than you can give, but the occasional treat can do nothing but put her in his favor she's sure.

 

“Please, take my father from The Beast and give him back.” She whispers as a prayer into the little biscuit. She puts all her undying hope into it, because a being named for hope must hold some power over it, and leaves it for the creature who lead Miss Clara home for a bottle of cider.

 

Animals know better than to touch what belongs to the spirits, so it's no bird that takes it away. Surely she is being heard, even if she's not being answered.

 

_----_

 

Miss Clara Deen comes for tea again, after the snows have settles and the air is clear and crisp. Her footsteps in the snow are odd and tiny, and her skirts go down to the dirt, but Anna lets her in anyways.

 

“It won't do at all, being alone out here, a body isn't meant to be alone.” She says by way of explanation. Anna stares, because instead of scarves, the other girl has a veil of spider silk covering her face, as delicate as a newborns breath over the shape of her head.

 

Rather than offended, the other girl preens at the attention.

 

“Isn't it lovely? Miss Billy Jean and I both have been saving silk for years, but she went and made herself this pretty wig for her costume next year and I admit I got a bit jealous of her when it was all done. It's why I was out and about last time you know. The winds weren’t howling when I went looking for witch hazel to sew over my buttons but then they stirred themselves up and I was caught in the middle until I didn't know up from down. Never found it, but I'll make due with my bows. No one can ever claim me a victim of vanity, and joke's on her besides, when her wig gets all tangled at the first party of the harvest and I have a handkerchief for years to come.”

 

Clara Deen tilts her head, as if showing off the drape of the veil, but Anna can make out little through the cloth. She does get a good look at the braids set over Clara's shoulders though, and what she thought was blonde hair appears to be combed yarn and corn silk. A Husk Doll indeed.

 

“Do you two not get along?” Anna titters as she sets the table for tea, making sure that the honey is closest to Clara.

 

“Oh of course we do.” Clara exclaims “but while most folks might say I've not a thought in my head most days she hasn't a practical bone in her body. It would do her a bit of good to see all that hard work go to waste for a bit of showing off.”

 

Indeed the girl seems a bit forgetful, for the tea is poured and dressed before she remembers the little basket she'd brought with. From under the teatowl placed on top, she pulls out a little loaf of zucchini bread and unwraps in from it's cloth coverings. It's still warm, dark brown and richly sweet smelling and her mouth waters from the nutty aroma. Anna is hard pressed for sweets this winter, most of her honey stores going to her little hearth helper and her offerings for the Forest's Mr Hope.

 

“For letting you sit out the wind last time?” She asks. It's better to clarify these things after all.

 

“I suppose.” The bell like voice sighs as Clara Deen waves her away to take over the slicing. They are considerably thicker than what Anna had proposed. “A pleasant surprise is good for you. What are neighbors for, than to share with?” And there is little Anna can add to that. She had left the city living as a small child, and can call the faces she knows there little more than acquaintances, while any neighbors she may have out here in the wood to not make themselves known.

 

“I add extra sugar to the batch. It wrecks my pans, but the edges turn a buttery brown.” Miss Clara practically gushes, and Anna hesitates for just a moment before taking a bite. She's fairly certain that whatever Clara is, she is not a true faerie. Even so, the warnings for taking food is clear. She is, however, clearly expected to eat it, and Anna at least knows the death that awaits her should the food be enchanted.

 

It is not enchanted, as far as Anna can tell. It is dense, and very sweet, studded with nuts and bits of dried fruit. It is moist and mouth watering, but it is hardly ambrosia fit to send her into madness for want of it. In fact it could do with a bit of warming up on the stove, perhaps with a bit of salt and butter to balance out the sweet.

 

But it is delicious, and Anna moans appreciatively under Clara's stare and the rest remains in her home when the other girl leaves.

 

_----_

 

“Is there a problem?” Clara's tinkling voice comes from behind her, and the man who has attempted to muscle through the door stops dead.

 

It is, in fact, a problem. Most leave without issue at the threat of her father, but others insist that they speak to him, confirmation from the man of the house that they are denied a safe bed for the night. They are often deterred then by the threat of the axe, but not this man, who has a foot wedged into the doorway and the stubbornness of a mule. There is a shifting behind her, and the man's face goes pale as death.

 

Thinking quickly, Anna sets her face and stares him in the eyes. _Quickly_ her eyes say, _leave here while you can._ He takes off like the devil is on his heels, and she smiles, feeling like a forest witch, feeling powerful, even if it's fake. Clara settles her veil again while Anna carefully looks away, not risking catching something she's not supposed to see.

 

_----_

 

“Why do you always run off so quickly?” Anna asks, as they picnic in the coming spring sun. It's chilly, but there's green enough for the goats to graze and more time for the lack of feeding. Anna is more preoccupied with food now that her stores are low and the roads are still ice. She's bred the goats, which leaves her feeding the Brownie the remainder of her honey cakes, but it will be worth is for fresh meat in a few seasons. Her savory dishes are bland with flour and salty with dried meat, and Clara's little baskets of treats seem farm more important than chores.

 

“Oh I wouldn't want to worry anyone in Pottsfield is all. They don't like me leaving so much, so it's important to get back before I'm missed.”

 

“Are you not supposed to leave?” Anna asks, a little brave. The hard tips of Clara's gloves are combing through her hair, weaving little blossoms into the strands. Sitting under her mother's cloak in the sun, a nap sounds divine.

 

“Well of course I can, I'm hardly a prisoner. But a community looks out for each other, and our goodly mayor can hardly keep an eye on us if he can't find us now can he? I'm hardly worried, with Mr. Hope around, but it is a bit too much out here I think. I'm really not sure how you stand it for so long. I think you would enjoy Pottsfield my dear I really do.”

 

“Perhaps” Anna allows, but does not concede.

 

“Your hair is so dark and soft.” Anna hears as she drifts off “I'll have to start dying the yarn soon, to make sure I get it just right.”

 

_----_

 

“Mr Thatcher has brought home a bride.” Clara says, with all the conspiracy of a matron set to gossip. Anna, who's life is quite dull now and full of work, often has little to contribute, but through quite of bit of diligence on Clara Dean's part, has become familiar with many of Pottsfield's occupants, in name if not in face.

 

Mr Thatcher is a long established bachelor, and a flirt at that. Quite the scandal that must be.

 

“We'd heard a great deal of her. He visited her often, but we'd all thought he and Joey McCob were using it as a cover to shirk their duties as watch folk and take a stroll together you know? Never mind McCob saying otherwise, one never tells the truth about such scandals when confronted, yes? He just shows up one day, her already near sleeping in his arms, as frail as a bird. The Mayor has a word or two with her, this poor dear with no family to talk to, and sets her up a nice little bed in the West fields. West! It will give her plenty of time to sleep and strip down all proper like but Thatcher insisted they share a bed already and if that's the case he'll miss the next several Harvests, and he hasn't missed a Harvest in as long as I can remember!”

 

Anna nods indulgently, a little lost but taken in by the cadence of Clara's ramblings.

 

_----_

 

“Done!” Anna hears her companion sing through the window, and the sweet smell of cookies drifts through the window to where she is drawing water. She has, up until now, done a great deal of chores outside. Clara Deen wants to bake her something “special, and fresh my turtle.” and needs her hands bare and cleaver for the endeavor. It is not hard task to find something to do until called, rather than see something she ought not.

 

“They just bloomed this week, and I fear I stripped the poor dears nearly bare, but they are beautiful aren't they?” Clara chimes, and does not stop. She forever seems to be trying to fill the quiet in Anna's life with idle chatter.

 

And this, perhaps, is what Anna expected out of a bit of food set to enchant her to madness. Delicate little sugar cookies, smelling of lavender water and still a bit soft, cool on a platter on her kitchen table. Each crispy wafer is topped with a small, dried violet, the steam of them releasing the perfume of scent. It's buttery, and crusted with sugar, and tastes like the little window box of flowers her mother had kept in the garden.

 

Anna has little time for indulgences like sweet treats in the wake of survival, and it's decadence is enough to bring her to tears.

 

“Oh, no, my sweet, no, let's dry those now.”

 

_----_

 

“I think I am going to bed this winter.” Clara Deen tells Anna as she stirs the pot for her supper. Clara's hands are busy with a bit of mending Anna has been meaning to do, but by the time she works up the announcement, they are fairly wringing the shirt in her hands to death.

 

Anna still isn't entirely certain what her good friend is, and at this point she cares very little. She has learned over time a bit more about her life though, and knows this means that Clara may be gone for a good long while.

 

“Oh?” she says carefully.

 

“Yes. I am very tired. I hardly had enough energy to attend the last Harvest, let alone dance. And sooner is always better than latter.”

 

Anna does not say much of anything at all. She knows what Clara Deen wants. She paints a very pretty picture. A small community, neighbors who are family who are neighbors who look out for each other and are never alone. Calm Autumn days spent sewing fields and weaving costumes, evenings carving pumpkins and baking pies, and nights, oh the nights, filled with revery and dancing and music, fueled with ale set to strip the flesh off bones. A little spot for Anna to exist and be loved and well rested and cared for, a spot in the earth as soft and warm as goose down.

 

Anna may be young, but she no demure wife to be led. But oh, to spend her days in the company of others sounds downright indulgent.

 

But she can not. This is her mother's land, and she is all there is to care for it. Her father is out there somewhere, and as long as she is here to make a home, then there is a home for him to come back to. To leave is to give up hope, and Clara will not ask it of her no more than she will offer it.

 

Clara sighs behind her.

 

“Come.” Clara says, and leads her upstairs, to where Anna still sleeps in her childhood bed, across the room from her parent's pristine and empty resting place.

 

There is no hesitation from the other girl, she sets Anna across from her, and with an efficient gesture pulls the spidersilk veil from where it is clipped into her yarn hair.

 

Anna isn't sure what she had expected. The ethereal beauty of the fae is something she'd no longer thought, but was certainly possible. Perhaps the features of an animal? Most likely a bit of corn husk with no face at all, like the dolls Anna still has tucked up on a shelf. All had crossed her mind at some point.

 

A skull in the end is little surprise. Anna supposes she should be startled, but given what she knows of her friend's little town, it's not very outlandish. It's a bit of a relief really, a confirmation that the other girl was once a person too, and not some otherness being only playing at human emotions.

 

It is a very large relief, in fact.

 

Clara strips off one of her gloves, and indeed her flesh was nothing more than straw stuffing. The bare bones of her hand are long and thin and delicate. With it, she grabs one of Anna's hand, and after only a moment's hesitation, Anna helps her to tie the white kerchief around their clasped fists.

 

The creases where Clara's joints meet pinches her fingers a little, and Anna supposes that if she had any girl friends, they would be hiding under the bed to pay witness. But she has no other girl friends, and unless Clara is denying her some hidden knowledge, there is little chance for Anna to get with child any time soon.

 

“I shall promise.” Clara starts, and it warbles just a bit. “To love you for as long as you will have it. To come for you, someday, when you are ready, and often before then, because I find that I can not stay away. And... and-”

 

“And I shall promise,” Anna continues, because she understands that there is nothing Clara can do to promise when she might return, no more than Anna can promise when her time might be over. But for all that her father needs a place to return to, she simply can no stay here forever, not without great and terrible magics. Anna has always wanted a love like her parent's, but the idea of husband was a far away fantasy for her. With a deep sigh, she blows it away, and with it her dream of children. This, she can give now at least. “I shall promise to wait, and to accept that love, and to someday be ready. Because I find that I do not want you to leave.”

 

Because Clara is not mortal, Anna expects nature to say something. A clap of thunder in rebellion, a singing of birds in joy, but there is nothing but the sound of her solitary breathing. Clara grabs her other hand, brings both up to touch Anna's fleshy wrists to rest against her bare teeth, and when she does Anna leans over and presses her lips to the smooth, white curve of her skull.

 

And with that, it is done, and Anna is left with a white square of cloth as delicate as a baby's first breath and a promise in the first frost.

 


End file.
